The Pre-Pubescent Unionist

You know, I never made it in Scottish rugby. Couldn’t hack it, wasn’t up to it. That’s why I left to join a French professional club.

That was the argument used by my SNP chum to expose my views on Scottish nationalism. My views were invalid because I never made it in Scottish rugby.

The next attack was on my age and, bizarrely, my pubescence. My views, my beliefs, are not valid because I am 19 and therefore not fully pubescent. I was quite game for sending a photo at this point and letting my nationalist pal judge for himself whether I was pubescent enough to hold views on the subject.

I was told that I have never worked and my views are therefore invalid. I have indeed worked.

My views, my beliefs, are also invalid because I have never “paid taxes, had a mortgage, domestic bills, been responsible for others welfare...” I wasn’t aware that my thoughts on Scottish nationalism would only become valid at a certain age and after fitting several criteria.

Given that most 19 year olds have not fulfilled these obligations, perhaps they shouldn’t be allowed a vote. Or maybe they should be allowed a vote, heck let’s give it to 16 year olds too, but no one under the age of, say, 25 should be allowed any views.

I questioned whether 19 year old SNP members would be allowed any views. 19 year old SNP members do have a massive advantage over me, of course – they’re in the right and I am simply wrong.

So I’ll be spending the rest of the afternoon trying to get better at rugby – maybe by tea-time my tackling will have improved enough to validate my right to have views on certain subjects. Maybe I’ll be closer to adulthood by that point and be better endowed and it will become okay to hold views, even if others disagree with them.

I can’t wait till I’m all grown up.

On Encountering the 'Cybernats'

This evening I couldn’t help but engage in debate with what is commonly known as the ‘cybernat’. This is an internet dweller who scurries into the open to challenge anything said against Scottish nationalism before scurrying away again.

What had I done? I re-published excerpts from George Orwell’s essay ‘Notes on Nationalism’. Nothing more, nothing less. Having read widely on the subject of nationalism, Orwell's thoughts struck a chord. 

The responses ranged from the bizarre to the sensible and several revealed much Scottish nationalism to go much deeper than the desire for Scotland to be independent.

I shall attempt to guide you through the twisting and the turning of the ‘cybernat’ when challenged. One thing that Orwell mentioned was confirmed: “The smallest slur upon his own unit, or any implied praise of a rival organisation, fills him with uneasiness which he can relieve only by making some sharp retort.”

At first, some nationalists clearly realised that they didn’t want to be associated with what Orwell was talking about. This is encouraging. So several deflected attention to the Prime Minister. For a while, ‘nationalist’ became a dirty word – David Cameron is the nationalist. When I pointed out that the Scottish National Party is inescapably nationalist, these few cybernats scurried away.

Next up they tried to escape nationalism by claiming that the SNP actually fit Orwell’s definition of patriotism rather than nationalism. Here is what Orwell says:

                [By] “‘patriotism’ I mean devotion to a particular place and a particular way of life, which one believes to be the best in the world but which has no wish to force on other people. Patriotism is of its nature defensive, both militarily and culturally. Nationalism, on the other hand, is inseparable from the desire for power. The abiding purpose of every nationalist is to secure more power and more prestige, not for himself but for the nation or other unit in which he has chosen to sink his own individuality.”

More power, more prestige. The cybernat response to Orwell’s words? The Declaration of Arbroath, 1320. This is the just first time that this particularly worrying strand of ‘Braveheart’ nationalism appeared. This failure to recognise that, impressive as the Declaration is, Scotland has moved on. There are better arguments for independence than the Declaration of Arbroath.

Are anti-nationalist views ‘misinformed’? Apparently, an independent Scotland is the logical end point to all this and, when everyone knows the facts, then they too will agree. If your beliefs are of a Unionist nature, sorry, you are ‘misinformed’. As if there is some final answer that is ‘correct’, like a maths puzzle and we’re all just trying to work it out and we’ll all get there eventually. I’m one of the slow ones! Thank goodness there are those who have already solved the puzzle and know the right answer. They can inform me.

Question: ‘Would we have greater or less individual power in an independent Scotland?’

Answer: I don’t know. My response to this was, ‘I would have greater individual power with no government at all but no one is advocating that’.

The Proclaimers wrote a lovely song about the Scots going ‘Cap in Hand’ to the English. I’m listening to it now, it talks about when Hibs goalies were good. This phrase is so unbelievably demeaning to Scotland. It basically suggests that Scotland is so weak that they have to go ‘cap in hand’ to the English. If highlighting the weakness of Scotland is an argument for independence then forgive me if I rest my case.

Common sense broke out around half past nine, with discussion centring on whether independence would leave Scotland in a better situation. Obviously no conclusion was reached. So the cybernats then started to wage a class war. “For us to get a better UK deal would take removal of every single Tory in Westminster.” Ah, so this is what it rests on. The Tories hate Scotland and are deliberately grinding it into the ground!

I was encountering a nationalism based on the dislike of one political party.

My point that it is very possible to be Scottish, British and a Tory was rubbished, with Malcolm Rifkind and Michael Forsyth attracting much ire. I asked if they were anti-Scottish but apparently they’re ‘counter-Scottish’ which is an Orwellian shifting of language if ever I saw one.

Orwell said that Scottish nationalism often takes the form of ‘a class hatred tirade against the B.B.C. accent.’ And sure enough, the BBC are apparently biased. They call Andy Murray Scottish when he loses and British when he wins. A call to arms!  Comrades, claim back your country and your tennis players!

The debate descended into bringing up the Highland Clearances and turning it into what I interpreted as an England vs. Scotland event – simplified history.

In the end, it was argument for the sake of argument. I am guilty for not being able to resist a scrap. This remains an issue of debate and there is nothing dialectical about it. Orwell: ‘all nationalist controversy remains at the debating-society level. It is always entirely inconclusive, since each contestant invariably believes himself to have won the victory.’ I’m not trying to win anyone over to what I see as a correct point of view. I don’t see anyone else’s views as ‘misinformed’ and subject to change when I lay out all the evidence. It is good fun, however, and the ideals of a proper debate are worth sticking to for their own sake. Sadly, not all agree. The final word on this Thursday evening belongs to Christopher Hitchens who said, “My own opinion is enough for me and I claim the right to have it defended against any consensus, any majority, anywhere, anytime, and anyone who disagrees with this can pick a number, get in line, and kiss my ass.”

Orwell on Nationalism

Having long been an admirer of George Orwell – who isn’t? – I came across an essay he wrote on nationalism. After reading it, there’s nothing more that needs to be read on the subject, so precise is his understanding of this movement. The clarity of his prose is unrivalled. It is a long essay so I have selected and general points about nationalism.

“There are, for example, Trotskyists who have become simply enemies of the U.S.S.R. without developing a corresponding loyalty to any other unit. When one grasps the implications of this, the nature of what I mean by nationalism becomes a good deal clearer. A nationalist is one who thinks solely, or mainly, in terms of competitive prestige. He may be a positive or a negative nationalist – that is, he may use his mental energy either in boosting or in denigrating – but at any rate his thoughts always turn on victories, defeats, triumphs and humiliations. He sees history, especially contemporary history, as the endless rise and decline of great power units, and every event that happens seems to him a demonstration that his own side is on the upgrade and some hated rival is on the downgrade. But finally, it is important not to confuse nationalism with mere worship of success. The nationalist does not go on the principle of simply ganging up with the strongest side. On the contrary, having picked his side, he persuades himself that it is the strongest, and is able to stick to his belief even when the facts are overwhelmingly against him.”

[Nationalism is] “the habit of identifying oneself with a single nationa or other unit, placing it beyond good and evil and recognising no other duty than that of advancing its interests. Nationalism is not to be confused with patriotism.”

[By] “‘patriotism' I mean devotion to a particular place and a particular way of life, which one believes to be the best in the world but has no wish to force on the other hand, is inseparable from the desire for power. The abiding purpose of every nationalist is to secure more power and more prestige, not for himself but for the nation or other unit in which he has chosen to sink his own individuality.”

“Nationalism is power-hunger tempered by self-deception. Every nationalist is capable of the most flagrant dishonesty, but he is also – since he is conscious of serving something bigger than himself – unshakeably certain of being in the right.”

“Obsession. As nearly as possible, no nationalist ever thinks, talks, or writes about anything except the superiority of his own power unit. It is difficult if not impossible for any nationalist to conceal his allegiance. The smallest slur upon his own unit, or any implied praise of a rival organisation, fills him with uneasiness which he can relieve only by making some sharp retort. If the chosen unit is an actual country, such as Ireland or India, he will generally claim superiority for it not only in military power and political virtue, but in art, literature, sport, structure of the language, the physical beauty of the inhabitants, and perhaps even in climate, scenery and cooking. He will show great sensitiveness about such things as the correct display of flags, relative size of headlines and the order in which different countries are named.”

“All nationalists consider it a duty to spread their own language to the detriment of rival languages, and among English=speakers this struggle reappears in subtler forms as a struggle between dialects. Anglophobe-Americans will refuse to use a slang phrase if they know it to be of British origin, and the conflict between Latinizers and Germanizers often has nationalists motives behind it. Scottish nationalists insist on the superiority of Lowland Scots, and socialists whose nationalism takes the form of class hatred tirade against the B.B.C. accent and even often gives the impression of being tinged by belief in sympathetic magic – a belief which probably comes out in the widespread custom of burning political enemies in effigy, or using pictures of them as targets in shooting galleries.”

“The general uncertainty as to what is really happening makes it easier to cling to lunatic beliefs. Since nothing is ever quite proved or disproved, the most unmistakable fact can be impudently denied. Moreover, although endlessly brooding on power, victory, defeat, revenge, the nationalist is often somewhat uninterested in what happens in the real world. What he wants is to feel that his own unit is getting the better of some other unit, and he can more easily do this by scoring off an adversary than by examining the facts to see whether they support him. All nationalist controversy is at the debating-society level. It is always entirely inconclusive, since each contestant invariably believes himself to have won the victory. Some nationalists are not far from schizophrenia, living quite happily amid dreams of power and conquest which have no connection with the physical world.”

There Are Two Types of Sports Journalist

There are two types of sports journalist. To outline my thoughts I will take two Sunday Times rugby writers, Stephen Jones and Stuart Barnes. You would be forgiven for thinking that the two types are 'bad' and 'good', but that isn't my point.

There are those who have played sport at the highest level and there are those who have not. Both have their place, and those who represent the common man should be careful not to step into the territory of the other.

There is always the nagging fear that anyone who has only ever written about sport will forever be a 'commentator' and not a 'doer'. There is something sickeningly fawning about it, interviewing the heroes, forever being the link between the public and the hero, so close but so far in every respect. Surely the worst fear for any upstanding sports journalist is to be lambasted by a sporting professional, "What does he know? To what level did he play?"

This is the risk that too many sports journalists of the Stephen Jones type take. They are too close to the line. And any sportsman who did moan about a journalist in that way would be right to do so. It doesn't make for good reading either.

It all relates to the standards by which a professional sportsman is judged by a journalist. The safest way is to judge them by their own standards. "He would have expected to kick that penalty...He kicks them 9 times out of 10". This is acceptable to read (clichéd but acceptable) - it doesn't cross any lines.

The wanton, arrogant and often disapproving tone that Jones takes too often smacks of a man who thinks he's the champ, the champ of rugby writing, what Norman Mailer was to boxing. This seems to give him equality with those champs in the field he is writing on. He's been around for 30 years after all, covered every World Cup and every Lions tour since McBride. But he has never gotten any closer to a rugby pitch in all that time.

He judges players by what he's seen. This, to a certain extent, is fine, and often makes for interesting reading, especially for those of us who never saw Barry John or Gerald Davies (Jones' heroes are nearly always Welsh). Jones takes all the inside-centres England have ever had and ranks them and then attempts to place the current incumbent. This is how he decides whether the young man is a worthy wearer of the shirt. This is more problematic as it fails to accept that a player is often the best available. At this point Jones can become unbearable in a short-sighted tirade about modern standards and so on. Again, he is left as the commentator who always knows best but is never willing to do anything about it.

Stuart Barnes also falls in to this trap occasionally. As a former player he is naturally inclined to be nicer towards players. He knows the pressures that Jones has never faced. Never. As such his insights are often more interesting. He has the stories from touring. And everyone knows that a story about players on tours is always going to be more interesting than one about drunken hacks, sniffing about for a story.

Where Barnes falls down is his remarks on coaches, for he is nearly always right about players. He has played with and against some of the greats, drank Merlot with them, sung Leonard Cohen with them and is a better judge for it. He never was a coach though, too much of a maverick player, so his comments on coaching must always be taken with a pinch of salt. Having said that, he played under many coaches and his judgements are aided by the fact that he got along spectacularly with some and abysmally with others. He knows what he is looking for in a coach. Jones knows what he is looking for in a coach - one who wins. His experiences are narrow and so are his judgements.

Both types of journalist have their place. It would be tiresome to constantly hear the musings of those who were once at the pinnacle. We can be amazed and enlightened by their words but we will never be them. They have seen things we never will. So we need the more literate of the remaining majority who lack the playing experience to put forward their views. They must become expert watchers and the things that they pick up on are the smaller things that the competitor naturally has no time for. The view from the press box is a very good one but those who inhabit it and make it their home should remember how far away it is from the arena and temper their writing with appropriate levels of sympathy, along with the awe for those who compete. For that is what the reader feels. As soon as an everyday journalist loses their sense of awe for what they are watching, they are finished.

Speak Less Than Thou Knowest

The ability to comment underneath online sports journalism is a sad and bad thing.

It used to be the case that sport was discussed face to face in pubs, cafés, at work or in the home. Theories of evolution were crucial to this working: if you or your views were offensive or wrong then everyone else would have the option of staying away from you and your views would permeate no further than your body odour.

These days, however, everyone has an automatic audience, no matter how much of a loonie they are.

Why should the views of some punter have equal footing on a page as a journalist? Even if that journalist is a second-rater who writes to a script and insists on including a gratuitous reference to Shakespeare in a rugby report that does little to suggest that he has actually read Julius Caesar but rather that he has read something about the film The Ides of March. Unbelievable.

Some commenters are such regulars on the Times that they deserve their own head shot. Maybe I'll shoot their head for them.

So if you have genuine views, set up your own website and write them out fully. Then you can spend your days checking the stats page to see if anyone actually reads it - that's democratic. Or at least, then people can just leave comments on your blog and all the offensive, stupid people can be happy and ignorant in the same place.

I know what you're thinking. Fraser, you angry little hypocrite. And yes, I comment every now and again. Heck, I've commented as myself on articles about me - you should see the way some people run for the hills when the object of their displeasure turns up. There's no need for them to run though, I don't know who they are. They're hiding already, behind clever pseudonyms. Yet run they do.

So am I just as guilty? No, I profess to a more noble cause of smoking out the bullshitters, the liars and the creeps and making them so scared and so embarrassed that they shy away from the computer and wish they'd never picked up a rugby ball. Except in most cases...

Some sites think the number of comments they receive validates them. They wear the numbers of comments as a badge of honour. They might moralise about everyone having the right of opinion. This is wrong. If their journalism is good enough, people should be flocking to their site anyway to read the words, not going there to let off some steam and spout some of their own views. A comments section shows a total lack of faith in what your website is trying to achieve.

Keyhole Surgery: Hallelujah.

For about 45 minutes this sunny afternoon I was back in Paris. It was just me, my ankles and an assorted group of health professionals. From the smiling receptionist to the rushed woman who did the x-rays, standing behind her iron screen (radiographer?), to the knowledgeable and confident consultant.

It could have been the Clinique du Sport in the 5th Arrondissement, where I kept the MRI machine warm for Hugo Southwell, or the hospital in Antony, or that other clinic that I sweated my way around the suburbs to find only for results to show that my hamstring was still very much intact.

Today was in Exeter but the all the apparatuses of these visits remained. The interminable waiting around, watching the clock, not wanting to touch the communal magazines despite the knowledge that these patients were injured and not sick. Their germs were the same as mine and their joints just as unstable. I read the Telegraph sport section instead of the Midi Olympique. My fellow patients were just the same, the elderly and their hips. The same, faint excitement from the staff when they realise they have un sportif on their hands.

Then there's my eternal and paradoxical hope that the ankle will still be sore when he does his examination. It would have been typical if it had behaved at exactly the wrong moment, making me look the fool.

And as you read your sports paper, in English or French, you rehearse the story of how you injured the ankle in the first place. You don't tell them how you injured it, that's in the past, all that remains is the story. So you tell them the story of how you injured it - the story that you've been perfecting each time you tell it to each different physio and each different coach.

And after the x-ray people have got their hands on your ankle and lined it up and hid behind their screen and pressed the button, you return to the waiting room. And when the images appear on the doctor's screen, he looks for the abnormality and, hallelujah, he finds something. He calls you in to share the good news. You are injured. There is genuinely something wrong with the joint. Immediately I felt sane again. What joy to be injured, to be officially injured and to know how it is going to be fixed and when you will play again.

I can now haul myself out of this limbo, this lazy, half-assed semi-retirement that I've been wallowing in and circle a date on the calendar. That is when I will run again and play again. I will go under the knife - my stomach churns - and then they will take the stiches out and then I will work hard and then I will play again.

Nick Mallett for England

Worldly, erudite, multi-lingual and proven in several environments. This man must be the next coach of the England rugby team. Nothing about Nick Mallett smacks of Aviva Premiership weights lifting academies or RFU accredited coaching badges or moving through the system being sycophantic to the right people. He seems to me to be about as far away from Rob Andrew as a rugby person could be. Though Andrew went to Cambridge and Mallett to Oxford.

He combines the rugged, ruthless streak common in South African rugby with an erudite and enquiring mind. For a generation of rugby players who have never seen past the back door of their local Nando's, Mallett is a rugby traveller, the best sort of rugby person. Never accepting that he knows everything or that the South African way is best, he has travelled the rugby world accepting challenges and learning on the hoof.

He was schooled in the same way as many white Springboks, at a white private school, in the Eastern Cape, from where he moved to Cape Town University where he took a BA in English and History. Ah, a man of letters, a reading man. Excellent.

From there he moved to Oxford - just another thick rugby player, many mean-spirited souls will cry - but he took blues in both rugby and cricket. He once hit three sixes in an over off Ian Botham. English, history, rugby AND cricket. I'm unashamedly biased.

Back in South Africa he won 4 consecutive Currie Cups with Western Province and won 2 caps for the Springboks.

His coaching career began in Italy at Rovigo from where he moved to Saint-Claude in France. He then coached Boland back in South Africa, then the Springboks assistant coach before being appointed head coach in 1997.

If it hadn't been for typical stubbornness and political infighting of the SARFU, who knows what Mallett could have achieved. He took the Boks on a record winning streak of 17 wins, including an unbeaten Tri-Nations. His time with his national side ended after his relationship with the captain Gary Teichmann soured and Mallett spoke out against high ticket prices. Instead of going through a disciplinary hearing for allegedly "bringing the game into disrepute", he resigned.

He returned to coaching in 2000 with Stade Francais, to whom he brought domestic titles in 2003 and 2004. Success. It was then back to Western Province before taking up the Italy job. The very fact that he took the Italy job is highly laudable. A coach of his calibre would have enjoyed more success at any of the top clubs in the world and most national sides. It says a great deal about him that he took on such a challenge. Italy moved forward under Mallett, slowly but forward, and there are greater issues in Italian rugby that are outwith the remit of the head coach of the international side.

He's also consistently won with the Barbarians - crucial wins with a dying franchise playing an impressive style of rugby. With two hours practice on a Tuesday and another two hours on a Thursday, these wins are not to be sniffed at.

As a rugby coach, his credentials are some of the best around. As a person, likewise. The culture he will create will be a winning one, with no excuses. In many ways he reminds me of Clive Woodward in his professional outlook. This is no time to pick a candidate to learn on the job. England must start winning, the resources are too great to make mistakes.

Technically he is clearly adept. He is used to media pressure and the PR skills that come with it - something that Wayne Smith shied away from - and he clearly loves a challenge. He's always succeeded and played good rugby, too. For England to get to where they should be, it has to be Mallett.

"Petty, Arrogant"...Fully Vindicated.

On what basis should an international rugby squad be picked? Should it be on 'form', this mystically subjective word, or class? Was Beefy Botham right in his confident assertion that 'form is temporary, class is permanent?'

In the run up to Scotland's first match in this 6 Nations, various people were worried about the squad not being picked on form, and instead on performances from several months ago. Ross Rennie was one such player under discussion.

Having not played a huge amount for his club side this season, some felt that his selection wasn't merited. How can he be expected to perform for his national side when he can't even get in his club side, they wailed.

No, I said, don't be so silly. I want a Scotland squad made up of the best players. If someone's form has shown them to be one of the best players then they are welcome in the squad. But form is not class, and form is not ability. It is too myopic.

It also assumes that just because a player has performed at club level that they will seamlessly rise to the challenges of international rugby. This sort of thinking is simplistic in the extreme. Yes, many do, and if in doubt, we should test these players out. That's the only way we will really know. But they must show both the form and the class.

In Rennie's case, he had proven the class, over and over again. This season, when he played for Edinburgh, he showed his class. He was clearly one of the best players Scotland has, yet some were questioning his place in the squad because of 'form'.

I took great exception to this before the England match and told all and sundry that Ross Rennie was world class and would prove it. Many joined me in this, the collective sticking out of our necks and standing up for the selection of a class player. We watched the England game hopeful, but with no shortage of expectation that class would show.

Of course, we were right all along. Andy Robinson was also right, picking a class player with scant regard paid to how many matches he has played this season. It is hard to avoid a 'told you so...' in the wake of these barnstorming performances, but those who were wrong should admit they were wrong, and if they need a little encouragement then I am more than happy to provide it.

What we have is a potential British & Irish Lion on our hands. These are world class performances. Being proved right isn't about being personal or taunting those who were proved to be wrong, but taking joy in one of our world class players. Let us be positive about class, not negative about 'form'.

Wales host Scotland: To 'Mordor' and Beyond

A Scot from Edinburgh and a Welshman from Llanelli, both exiled in Devon, went day-tripping to Cardiff. That's not the start of a bad joke, but the beginning of a typically atypical 6 Nations story.

From Exeter to Bristol Temple Meads and then on to Cardiff would be our itinerary.

There were exiled Welsh in Exeter who joined us, and then more at every stop the train made. There were Scots, too, in particular one kilted Borderer who proudly wore a South of Scotland shirt. He got on in the rural backwater of Tiverton, proving that you can take the man out the Borders...

My 'see you Jimmy' hat was drawing more and more attention as we reached nearer Bristol, upon where I began to blend seamlessly into the hoards of Scots. I had only previously been to Wales to play rugby in Cardiff - my focus was not on looking out the window on those occasions. Today, though, I was at leisure to take in the joyful and energetic scenery of South Wales. If that sounds facetious and overly harsh on the places that the train struggled through, then I apologise. It's industrial, clearly once thriving but now jaded in the extreme and clearly breeds good rugby players as well as good rugby people.

Cardiff Central train station is very central indeed, and we enjoyed our walk to collect our tickets. I made full use of the time to warm up my voice, humming Men of Harlech before downright shouting Bread of Heaven. I was not going to turn up to the Millennium unprepared. 

A Level geographers might see Cardiff as an excellent example of city centre regeneration. It's a pretty town centre, pedestrianised and so on. I was pleasantly surprised, though that reflects more on me than on Cardiff.

It was also a rugby town, a proper bone fide rugby town full of rugby people. Flags flying, rugby shops, the whole place geared towards rugby just like Limerick and Perpignan.

Not being an adventurous creature, me, I joined the sizeable queue in Gregg's to pick up some lunch. It was as if every Scot had seen the queue and felt it was their moral duty to buy a cheese and ham melt.

Well fed, with the voice box loosening up nicely, we joined the throngs. I was surprised at how close the Arm's Park was to the Millennium Stadium. It seems silly that Cardiff Blues play in a half empty football stadium and not this compact ground with so much history. 

The Millennium deserves every inch of its reputation. It is so much more impressive than the Stade de France, Murrayfield and the rest. So steep, with the crowd so close. And then the singing. About 60 middle aged to elderly gentlemen trooped out, with the brass band and the now customary goat, and began to sing the classics. 'Delilah' was huge, 'Bread of Heaven' everything I hoped it would be.

I was sitting next to a very inebriated middle aged Welsh woman who clearly has unresolved issues surrounding Leigh Halfpenny. These issues will not be solved in the near future. It seems to me that Welsh women broadly fit into one of four categories: Katherine Jenkins, Charlotte Church, Nessa or Stella - the final two are Ruth Jones characters. My teary, beery, companion, she was a 'Nessa'.

Scotland looked promising at times. Their scramble defence is world class. Stuart Hogg is pure class. Blair should have started, proving lots of people right. Ross Rennie was world class once again, proving that you don't have to play every week for your club side to justify your place in the national team.

I wrote last week, fairly angrily, at what I saw to be a growing and misplaced arrogance from Welsh fans, pundits and former players. They really are an arrogant bunch, but after a day in amongst them, it's easy to see why. They take it so seriously, far more than Scottish fans. They believe their rugby history is far more impressive and it defines their national identity far more than in Scotland. All this is hard to argue with. And they sing, and shout, and make noise and they're positive towards their own team and not unreasonably unwelcoming to opposition teams.

To paraphrase Jim Telfer, they think all the rugby is with them.

So rather than castigate the Welsh, I hope the Scots become more like them. Of course no one wants Andy Nicol to become Jonathan Davies, but we could do with taking a bit more pride in our achievements, our rugby history and traditions, a Scottish style of play, making our players our heroes and national icons. This is all tricky to do. Wales simply like rugby more than Scotland. They have a smaller population but consistently bigger crowds - it's their national sport. It matter more to more people.

For us, it's a minority game where small factions argue against smaller factions and don't buy tickets and moan about the prices and moan about the players and the coach and rejoice when they retire and seem to take a masochistic pleasure in the whole goddamed thing.

Today was a wonderful day, despite the result. I have a new found grudging respect for the Welsh and for how seriously they take their rugby. I still hope France beat them in the Grand Slam decider, but I left Cardiff thoroughly impressed with the whole thing and heady with the much clichéd brotherhood of the 6 Nations.

The Growing and Misplaced Arrogance in Welsh Rugby

There is a growing arrogance in Welsh rugby that I really hope gets shown up on Sunday afternoon.

Ever since the World Cup, all I have come across is self-righteous indignation from everyone from Jonathan Davies to Jonathan Davies to Warren Gatland and every Welsh captain from the past 50 years. You were good in the 1970s, we get it. The only humility has come from Sam Warburton.

First there was his red card, one of the best and most courageous decisions I have ever seen a referee take. The tackle was dangerous and Vincent Clerc's neck was put in considerable danger. If someone mentions this justified red card one more time, I am no longer responsible for my actions.

Alain Rolland, I salute you.

Then there was the utter failure to accept that Wales were responsible for their own defeat. If only their goal-kickers had the ability to knock over simple 3 points, they would have been in the World Cup final. But they consistently failed to accept their own failings.

They ended up fourth in the World Cup after a lacklustre performance against Australia in the play-off. Would it be sacrilegious to point out that this glittering Wales side won just as many games as England? Tricky point to accept for many in the valleys.

Then in the Autumn, Wales lost again to Australia. Things were starting to not add up. But this Wales side is so good? What's going on?

And then the build-up to the 6 Nations. Wales for the grand slam? They were, after all, so good in the World Cup. And aren't their backs wonderful? For that matter, yes they can be.

We're being subjected to embarrassing comparisons between the promising George North and the incomparable Jonah Lomu. Any rugby fan who saw Lomu will now be doubled up with laughter. British & Irish Lions teams are being suggested, packed with Welshmen, those traditionally bad tourists.

This Wales team has achieved nothing of note. Until they achieve something, excuse me for reacting rather coolly to all this hype. As I said, you were good in the 70s, we get it.

Let's see this potential turned into something, then we'll bow down to the superior greatness of Welsh rugby, how important it is in your valleys, how skilful your number 10s always are, how wonderful Max Boyce is and how beautiful Katherine Jenkins is. Until then, pipe down, Davies.

Keeping the Bard Happy

This blog does, in its title, include the phrase 'Bard's Place' - my rather limp effort to make an appropriate pun out of the common phrase. I write often about the 'Ruck' but less about the Bard.

Perhaps this is because most of my time these days is on the reading and writing rather than the rugby, a sorry consequence of being the not-so proud owner of the two most impertinent ankles in Devon, if not the whole world.

Shakespeare: not all he is cracked up to be. He is no longer viewed as the "timeless and transhistorical figure" that we have deified him as. The Shakespeare we read today - who actually does this? - is a collaborative effort. The words have been through so many grubby pairs of hands that attributing these words to some genius is impossible. There is little originality in his work, taking old stories, buffing them up, twisting the ending to titillate Queen and pauper alike. He saw no lasting value in his plays and hated how they impacted on his more prestigious reputation as a writer of sonnets.

This is all information that should be crucial to A Level and GCSE syllabi. Currently, many pupils fail to 'get' Shakespeare and then, whilst still accepting that he is the genius, it becomes their problem, never that of the great bard. Disabusing pupils of the outdated view of Shakespeare can only be positive.

Another module, grandly named 'The Poem' takes us on a crash course through poetry and the techniques that the Greats have used. The elephant in the room, however, is that the vast majority of these poets are dead - not surprising, given that more people are now dead than are currently alive, of course. But poetry is dying. Maybe it is still a 'higher art' but consumers don't think so. All the best writers of our age write prose, often exclusively, a state of affairs which was not the case a century ago.

Some casual surfing of the web brought me to this: spoken word poetry. Perhaps this is the future, the saviour? Edinburghscreenworks.co.uk summed it up best in their review of the leading practitioner:

"If you are knowleagble in the works of Seamus Heaney, go to this show. If you're more familiar with Eminem's discography, go to this show"

Mark Grist, a former teacher, tours around the country, on the stage and often competing in 'Rap Battles' with teenagers who dress funny and whose only connection with poetry is through rap. Maybe poetry is alive and well, just not as we know it.

 

Dan Parks: A Tribute and a Warning

We should begin with some obvious but often neglected words: "you cannot be any better than you are." That is not to neglect improvement, of course we can always improve. But everyone has a natural limit and not everyone will become Dan Carter. What a boring game it would be if every number 10 was like Dan Carter.

The second obvious, but often neglected phrase is: "just try your best". What more can anyone do? Does anyone deny that Dan Parks always tried his best?

The third phrase is evident but equally neglected: "no one picks themselves".

So it is with these three phrases in mind that we can evaluate the premature retirement of Dan Parks. It is absolutely premature, as it always is when a fit and healthy player retires after just one game in the 6 Nations.

Dan Parks has been a good and honest servant to Scottish Rugby. Like many players, he came over to play when progression in Australia was no longer an option. Who can hold that against him? Not I; we live in professional times. Parks was not the first and he will not be the last.

Few will argue that he was a limited international fly-half. His left hand pass was very ropey indeed and whole crowds would wince when he threw a loopy lofted left-handed effort, often eschewing the spin-pass in favour of some other hybrid. He rarely took the ball to the line and he was really quite slow. The same crowd would gasp in horror when he decided to feint and go - what was he attempting? - and, finally, he was a poor tackler and a worse defender. I am in no position to condemn him for any of these faults - which of us are? - especially the last two.

Anyone educated in rugby football knows that there have been much worse fly-halves to defend alongside.

But what Parks did well, he did very well indeed. His odd kicking style, with his odder style of boot, has spawned a whole generation of Scottish kickers. For several seasons I adopted this slinging, round-the-corner style, trying to drill the ball into the corner like Parks did with such ease. He was ballsy, too, often just dropping the ball in-field, giving the full-back hope, before beating him to touch.

When his right leg was swinging well, he was the best tactical kicker in the world. Better than O'Gara and really he was the only other 10 who could claim to be such an expert.

His goal-kicking, too, was something to be admired. Stuart Barnes once said something like, "I have immense respect for anyone who can kick goals in international rugby." So few seem to recognise this. While Dan may have shirked a tackle, he never shirked a shot at goal. Perhaps that was the Aussie in him. He was a fighter.

Too often when Parks had led his team deep into opposition territory, he would opt for the drop-goal. Maybe he knew his limitations and those of his team. Certainly, some were the correct choice and others were emphatically not.

More often than not, his drop-goals were ugly. I salute him. There is nothing more beautiful than an ugly drop-goal.

It is deeply distressing that a player has felt so low that he feels he has nothing more to give, that his best option is to walk away. Parks has had bad games, bad campaigns, but has always fought back. This time, clearly, he hasn't the energy. And so many people to fight against! Whether he should be picked or not really has nothing to do with him. No. 3: "no one picks themselves."

I hope this is a wake-up call to Scottish Rugby fans, and all those who allowed their feelings on a matter of selection (controlled by a coach) to focus on the player. Players are pawns: they try their hardest, they try to improve at all times and it is the coach who controls his pieces. Debate should be directed to Robinson, not Parks. His failings are his failings, not his fault.

Who will the Scotsman commenting mafia turn their ignorant ire to next? Who will they hound out? Who will become the next symbol of Scottish failure? Whoever it is - and it will be someone - I cannot feel sorry for them enough.

Dan Parks is clearly a very likeable chap and is hugely respected by his peers. That's the important legacy, the esteem he is held in by those whose faces "are marred by dust and sweat and blood," not what JockyBadger from Bathgate thinks of you.

To conclude, let us return to our three unalterable and unchanging facts of international rugby:
1. You cannot be any better than you are/your failings are your failings, not your fault.
2. They are all trying their best.
3. No one picks themselves.

This is a sad day for Scottish Rugby, let's hope we all learn the lessons.

'Deserve'

Eddie Butler, in his opening video montage on top of which he purrs about the upcoming Championship, strayed into dangerous territory this afternoon. He suggested that Wales 'should have' beaten France and didn't because of Warburton's red card (a debatable issue, unlike the missed kicks) and that France 'should have' beaten New Zealand, though it's not clear why.

Did Wales 'deserve' to beat France? Of course not. Did France 'deserve' to beat New Zealand? Don't be silly. What gives either of these teams the right to win anything? Is it because some feel that they were wronged? 'We were all bitched from the start'. The score board is the great leveller, the inarguable friend and foe. It is the only constant and must be respected. Sometimes it is your friend, sometimes your enemy.

The best starting point for any sport is that no one deserves anything. The word 'deserve' should be obliterated from the vocabulary of anyone with a genuine interest in sport. Unless, that is, unless it features in Jonny Wilkinson's mantra, 'get what you deserve'. This has seemed to me to be a fair and rewarding way of approaching the game.

Otherwise you leave yourself open to blaming other people - referees, the weather, the hotel, the food, the pitch. All this was summed up by Jim Telfer on the 1997 Lions tour in his famous speech about the British abroad.

People who use the word 'deserve' are the same people who, in football, claim that a team that has 20 shots on target and scores 0 goals has more of a right to win, or deserves a win, more than a team that has 1 shot on target and scores 1 goal. The only way to approach this is to accept that your strikers must improve. Any other response will slow down a team's development.

You create your own luck and you get what you deserve. That simply must be the starting point for any team. That way, no room is left for complaining, for evading responsibility, for blaming defeats on others. Everything that happens is our fault, wins or defeats. What is the point of training if we aren't to accept this as fact?

It denies weakness and turns it all back on you: how hard you practised, how hard you wanted it. Players become empowered, referees become irrelevant. That's the sort of team Scotland must become. More importantly, that's the sort of attitude that Scotland's fans must adopt. Until then, it'll always be someone else's fault.

Chabal Leaves Racing

The relationship between Sebastien Chabal and Racing Metro 92 has ended in tears. It is unsurprising that a relationship based on money and personal profile and that often resembled a business deal with two equal benefiting partners has ended so acrimoniously.

The reasons given are typical: disagreements over contract negotiations and disagreements about the direction of the club. That's a rough translation. The vocabulary used tells us something about this relationship. The word 'reciprocal' pops up, as does 'collaboration'.

Chabal returned to French rugby after his exile in Sale, hailed as the new figurehead of what was effectively a new club. Certainly a new team. People started to notice Racing, he proved to people that they were serious. That was a dangerous gamble to take, allowing people to see your club in one man.

It's hard to overestimate how big Chabal is in France. Simply, he is the most recognisable sportsman, the most well-liked sportsman and a businessman and television personality to boot. In short, he was bigger than the club.

He brought in innumerable fans to Colombes, they who would collectively shout 'ooooooo' whenever he touched the ball. But were they just watching one man?

Last season Chabal only featured every now and again. Jacques Cronje was clearly the best number 8 at the club and Pierre Berbizier was confident enough to pick him. Weaker coaches would have given in to public pressure, talked about his importance to the club and how he was a figurehead. Who knows what the President thought of all this, his star fading right in front of his eyes.

It's well known that the President and Chabal were good friends. Perhaps they still are. They are still neighbours, after all, in the wealthy suburb of Sceaux.

But while Chabal's ability to make his characteristically big tackles and bullocking runs diminished, he was more and more on the television. It was clear he was on the way out.

This awkward situation was made worse when contract negotiations publicly became an issue. Will he stay or will he go? Racing then effectively signed a new number 8 for next season, Montpellier's Fijian Sakiusa Matadigo. It became obviously that Chabal would not remain at the club. How could he? He was offering less and less on the pitch and the club had to move on. They should have parted ways quietly at the end of the season. Instead, this has unnecessarily become a huge news story.

This situation had been coming from a long way off. It's sad that it had to end in this way. On balance, his impact at the club will be remembered as a positive one. He was a good ambassador for the club, if occasionally a little haughty. Hopefully some of those fans, curious about this man-beast, that Chabal first lured to Colombes are now genuine and will continue to be so. He was a figurehead when the club needed one. Unfortunately, whether the club needed a celebrity to prove they deserved their place in the Top 14 is doubtful, and that is what Chabal was allowed to become.

It's a lesson Sir Alex has known all along, and those at Racing would have done well to heed it: no one is bigger than the club.

Student Politics...

It was pointed out to me at dinner last night that Exeter 'Uni' was described (probably in the Guardian, which is burned here in the same way American flags are burned in the Khyber Pass) as 'a place for the lesser minds of the greater English public schools'.

I think this is grossly unfair. I mean, what about the lesser minds of the greater Scottish public schools? Or even the rather under performing but still wonderful slightly smaller Scottish public schools? And there seems to be plenty of lesser minds from the smaller, more provincial public schools.

"You know, at Radley they have chapel twice a day?"
"Do they now? That's quite monstrous what."

Today is the first day of campaigning for the posts at the pinnacle of Exeter student politics. We don't have a 'Student's Union', presumably because the word 'union' is anathema to students here, making them shudder at the thought of miners strikes that they can't remember and the sworn foe of the glorious leader we never knew, Maggie.

Instead we have a 'Student's Guild', which to me sounds like a student version of the 'Women's Guild' which takes place in most rural parishes up and down the land. Far more Exeter.

One of the many boring, tired, old clichés that boring, tired, old people like to use is how politicised students become at university. This hangover from the 1960s still remains at some universities I'm sure. But not here, and it is refreshing. Perhaps it's our provincial nature. Those rolling Devon hills I can see out of my window (just past the children's nursery - don't ask) tend to placate any fiery feelings of revolutionary Marxism, or more likely, fascism. So we just shout 'hurrah' for Cameron and 'hurrah' for the Queen and get on with our day.

This campaigning, for the posts of Athletic Union president, Student's Guild president and deputies, reminds me of the class elections that take place in US high-schools on the Disney channel. Everyone takes them far too seriously yet everyone knows that this is not preparation for the real thing. At Oxford it probably is. Archbishops of Canterbury (Archibald Campbell Tait, arguably the greatest ever Academical), London Mayors (Boris), and too many MPs to mention. One gets the impression that this is a serious business indeed.

So when candidates bring in this opening day of elections standing in the centre of campus with pink leggings, pink shorts, a pink t-shirt and plenty of flyers (pink), it is heartening to see that they understand the same as the rest of us. Student politics is a total joke.